


Turnabout is Fair Play

by peevee



Series: Consequences [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Rimming, Sleepy Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock crosses boundaries, as usual.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He’s so defenceless like this, so pliant, soft and warm. Sherlock strokes a trembling hand over John’s stomach, eyes fluttering at the feel of sleep-warm skin still beneath his fingertips. He scratches through the soft trail of hair on his belly, feeling a thrill at the lack of response.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout is Fair Play

**Author's Note:**

> Another kinkmeme fill for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=109285711#t109285711) excellent prompt. More porn, what can I say?
> 
> Apologies for having zero knowledge of how tranquilisers work. Thank you, wikipedia.
> 
> Also, this is really _really_ dubious consent. I mean really. I've chosen not to use the archive warnings, but if you think this might not be your thing please tread carefully!

They don’t notice the tiny dart sticking out of John’s left thigh until he collapses in the lift on the way to Lestrade’s office. Sherlock is embarrassed to note that for a split second, his heart feels like it has seized and stopped in his chest. Irrational. _John._

The medical staff quickly identify the drug, and even more quickly fly into a controlled panic. An imizadole derivative; most likely Detomidine, a horse tranquiliser. It’s effects are based on dosage, and with no way to know how much John has been injected with, the only thing to be done is keep him under constant observation in case of breathing difficulties. 

Sherlock feels the hand squeezed around his ribs release slightly.

After six hours and only positive changes in his condition, John is released for Sherlock to take back to Baker Street. He’s started to blink slowly, trying to speak before slipping back into dozy sleep. Sherlock supposes it probably hasn’t helped that they’ve both been awake for most of the previous forty eight hours. 

He slips John out of his clothes and tucks him into bed, feeling his heart melting a little involuntarily at all the snuffling noises John makes. He settles himself in a chair, and watches.

For about four hours he is perfectly content to study the minute rise and fall of John’s chest as he sleeps. He watches with fascination the way John’s eyes dart beneath his closed lids as if in REM sleep, the way his left hand curls and uncurls as if trying to grip something. Sherlock feels little darts of fondness at each unconscious movement.

Eventually, he can’t resist any longer, and moves onto the bed to curl up beside John until they’re nose to nose. It’s the perfect opportunity to observe him without interruption, to catalogue him without fear of disturbing his sleep. He pets John’s hair slightly, smiling as John makes a sleepy little noise.

He doesn’t get to do this very often. John is normally so responsive that as soon as Sherlock begins to pet and caress him, he’s hard and wanting and pinning Sherlock to the bed, whispering filthy things in Sherlock’s ear and making him squirm. The chance to explore his skin in this way has Sherlock’s blood pulsing. He’s so defenceless like this, so pliant, soft and warm. Sherlock strokes a trembling hand over John’s stomach, eyes fluttering at the feel of sleep-warm skin still beneath his fingertips. He scratches through the soft trail of hair on his belly, feeling a thrill at the lack of response. 

John’s skin looks so warm and inviting, and Sherlock can’t resist moving his head down and pressing his lips to it. He mouths just below John’s nipple, tonguing slightly and tasting salt. His hand is still pressed to John’s belly, following the concave shape of it as he breathes in, feeling the fine hairs tickling the palm of his hand. He moves his fingers down slowly, cupping the soft weight of John’s cock in his palm. _God_ it feels wonderful. Normally it’s hard and hot and slick in his grip; just feeling it vulnerable and yielding like this prickles the skin at the back of Sherlock’s neck. He wants to take John in his mouth like this, suck on him, taste and lick just for the haptic pleasure of it. 

He shuffles down the bed, resting his head on the sharp curve of John’s hip, and watches closely the way John’s cock has started to swell and flush slightly with the attention. It’s a purely physical reaction, fascinating to watch and touch. He palms it slightly, rubbing his thumb over soft skin. Suddenly he is completely overwhelmed by the urge to _taste_ , and he rolls over onto his front and presses his nose into the warm, damp crease of Johns thigh. He flicks out his tongue delicately, breathes the dark, heady scent with a sigh, and pushes John’s thighs apart. They move without resistance. 

Sherlock mouths greedily over John’s cock. The feeling of him growing hard slowly against his tongue makes him squirm against the sheets. He’s not sucking, just licking, pressing his open mouth against soft elastic skin, sometimes biting slightly. John’s body seems to be approving, his legs spread ever so slightly wider and he makes a snuffing noise. At that, Sherlock reluctantly moves back slightly to look at him. He’s still not entirely hard, the tranquiliser obviously having an effect on his physical reactions too, and somehow that is just incredibly erotic. His cock is spit-slick and half soft, and _God_ Sherlock just wants to consume him. 

He sits up and leans forward to sleek his hands covetously down John’s sides, thumbing the hollows of his hipbones and kneading softly into his thighs before manoeuvering him gently onto his stomach, drinking in the sight of his back: a smooth expanse of pale golden skin. 

John mumbles something in his sleep, squirms a little. Sherlock smooths his fingers soothingly over John’s hips, his bum, pushing at the skin and kneading. He leans in and trails his tongue down over the last few bumps of John’s spine, presses his nose into the soft skin there and flicks his tongue down a little, a little further. He’s never done this, has always felt too self-conscious, but with John unconscious and pliant beneath him, he is suddenly desperate for it. He pushes the cheeks of John’s arse apart and gives a little tentative lick, testing. The first touch of his tongue against the centre of that hot, quivering little hole has him moaning involuntarily; it feels _exquisite_ and filthy and he wants more, can’t help himself from pushing his tongue inwards, trying to get as deep as he can. He works John open, revelling in the way he is so utterly yielding against his mouth, licking, sucking, kissing and thusting his tongue until his jaw aches and he is so turned on it’s almost painful. He pulls back and palms himself, eyes glued to John’s softly fluttering arsehole. It looks so inviting…

John is shifting restlessly in his sleep, a quick investigation with his hand reveals that he is completely hard and leaking slightly onto the sheets. Sherlock groans brokenly, gropes for the lubricant they keep beside the bed. He simply cannot resist, not when John is all spread out and soft and open like this. 

The slide inwards is absolutely delicious. With John not panting and squirming and begging like he usually does, Sherlock is free to push forward as slowly as he likes, to watch the head of his cock pushing into John’s body. His eyes are glued to the space between them, watching every minute pulse of his cock, every tiny clench of John’s body around him. John shifts ever so slightly, turns his head in his sleep. Sherlock pushes further in. He stops every couple of centimetres to pull completely back out and watch the slow push in again, drinking in the way John stretches around him so beautifully.

Once he’s all the way in, he lowers himself so he’s draped over John’s back, licks at the back of his neck. John mumbles something, pushes his hips back a little. Sherlock feels a thrill of danger pulse down his spine, making his cock jump. He shouldn’t be doing this, _oh_ he really shouldn’t, but _fuck_ it’s just so good. He thrusts slickly in and out, drags his nails gently over John’s ribs. His heart is beating incredibly fast, the _wrongness_ of what he’s doing making everything feel hyper-sensitive; he barely needs to move inside John before his skin is tingling. His breath comes in short, loud pants. 

“Sh’lock?”

Sherlock stills, heart beating wildly in his chest. Oh God, _yes._

“Sh’rlock, _oh_ , what?” His voice is muzzy, sleep-filled, delicious. Sherlock can’t contain a quick push of his hips. John gasps thickly. 

“Jesus, fuck. Sherlock…oh _God_ you’re inside me, oh fuck.”

Sherlock knows that at this point there should probably be shouting. This is really, really not good. He’s never been very good at resisting temptation, and John should really be running as far away from him as he can. Instead, John, still dozy and drowsy, arches under him in a way that’s completely unmistakably demanding and mumbles,

“Oh, harder, you ridiculous f’cking madman, ungh.”

Sherlock complies. John’s still too lethargic to properly push back or grip the sheets, so he mostly just groans out broken syllables as Sherlock fucks him forcefully into the mattress. 

“God, I’m so close,” John slurs, “What’ve you been doing to me, oh, god, god, fuck, yeah.”

“I put my t-tongue in your arse,” gasps Sherlock. “You tasted delicious.”

“Nngh, Jesus Christ, Sherlock.”

“I,” he says, “I licked you for so long, until I couldn’t resist. You’re were so- so soft and open.”

“God, God, fucking _hell._ I’m coming. Oh, Sh’rlock, fuck.”

Sherlock feels the beautiful clench of John’s muscles around him as he comes, wailing, into the sheets. It’s perfect, perfect, gorgeous, and Sherlock thrusts desperately, just a little more, he just needs a little extra push and he’ll be there, oh he’s so close…

He looks down at John; his eyes are closed and…has he fallen asleep? The combination of orgasm and the tranquiliser must have pushed him back into drowsy sleep and that thought is what does it; Sherlock is coming harder than he’s ever come in his life, letting out a desperate series of choked moans. _Fuck_ , yes.

 

He wakes, later, to three of John’s fingers slick and wet and buried sweetly in his arse. 

John looks up at him, wicked grin on his lovely little mouth,

“Turnabout is fair play.”


End file.
